OUTCROPPINGS: 


BEING 


SELECTIONS  OF  CALIFORNIA  VERSE. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 
A.    ROMAN    AND    COMPANY. 

NEW   YORK  ! 
W.  J.  WIDDLETON. 

1866. 


ALVORD,     PRINTER. 


PREFACE. 


N  presenting  to  the  public  u  volume  of"  this 
character,  few  words  of  explanation  are  re 
quired.  Its  contents  have  been  selected 
partly  from  contributions  by  local  poets  to  the  Cali 
fornia  newspapers  during  the  past  ten  years,  and 
partly  from  material  collected  three  years  ago  for  a 
similar  volume,  by  Miss  M.  V.  TINGLEY. 

It  might  be  expected  that  a  country  whose  scenery 
is  remarkable  for  sublimity  and  grandeur  would  have 
inspired  some  suitable  expression  here.  But  the  at 
tempts  at  descriptive  and  pastoral  poetry  have  n^t 
been  generally  successful :  perhaps  a  monotonous  cli 
mate,  lacking  those  vicissitudes  of  seasons  which  else 
where  inspire  the  imagination,  has  obliged  the  poet  to 


look  oftener  in  his  own  heart  for  that  Spring  and  Au 
tumn  from  which  so  much  imagery  is  supposed  to 
flow,  or  in  the  fortunes  of  his  fellow-men,  which  are 
mostly  exempt  from  this  climatic  influence.  It  has 
therefore  been  thought  preferable  to  select  poems  re 
lating  to  a  lower  plane  of  incident  and  experience,  as 
less  likely  to  exhibit  a  contrast  between  the  subject 
and  its  treatment  than  more  ambitious  efforts. 

For  these  reasons,  some  verses  have  been  excluded 
from  this  work  for  which  many  readers  will  confi 
dently  look,  and  some  admitted  which  will  be  equally 
unexpected.  While  it  is  not  probable  that  the  rejec 
tion  or  selection  of  any  poem  will  affect  the  reputation 
of  the  poet,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  performance 
of  this  duty  is  one  attended  with  some  responsibility 
and  peril. 


"    £(  .i 


CONTENTS. 


EDWARD  POLLOCK: 

THE  CHANDOS  PICTURE                .  .                                       9 

EVENING       ...  .                            15 

LYMAN  R.  GOODMAN: 

IN  THE  SWING   ...  .              .        18 

THE  BROKEN  ROSE  .....  23 

E.  G.  PAIGE  ("Dow,  JR."): 

THE  APPROACH  OF  AUTUMN       .  .              .              .26 

EMILIE  LAWSON : 

BLOSSOM  AND  FRUIT               .  .              .              .              31 

WINTERING         .              .              .  .              .              -34 

PARTING       ......  38 

THE  LARK  AND  THE  POET          .  .              .              .40 

Two  COMRADES  IN  ARMS  42 


PACK 

INA  D.  COOLBRITH : 

CUPID  KISSED  ME            .  _            .              .              .  .45 

THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF           .              ,              .  '  .              48 

A  LOST  DAY     .              .              .              .              .  .50 

"IN  THE  POUTS"     .              .              .              .  .               53 

C.  H.  WEBB: 

THE  JUNE  MONTH          .             .              .              .  •       55 

DAS  MEERMADCHEN                .              .              .  .              57 

THE  GOING  OF  MY  BRIDE          .              .              .  .60 

MY  RIVAL  ......  62 

UNDER  THE  STARS          .              .              .              .  .64 

CHARLES  W.  STODDARD  : 

AT  ANCHOR               .....  66 

A  FANCY            .              .              .              .              .  .68 

THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS         ...  70 

MARS  .....  72 

W.  A.  KENDALL: 

TERRAQUEOUS             .              .              ,              .  .  .'•          74 

MERIDIEM            .              .              .              .              .  -  .        78 

TRANSITION                              .              .              .  .              82 


M : 

TRIAL  ......  86 

TRUST  .  .  .  .  .  .  .88 

J.  F.  BOWMAN : 

THE  LAKE  OF  THE  LILIES     ....  90 

THE  WHOLE  STORY       .              .              .              .  .96 

WAITING      ......  98 

H.  C.  B.  : 

THE  OMEN        ....  .100 

CARRIE  CARLTON: 

THANK  GOD  FOR  RAIN          .  .  .  .  103 

ANNIE  A.  FITZGERALD: 

WAITING  FOR  THE  RAIN  .  .  .  .106 

B.  P.  AVERY: 

ALONE  IN  THE  WOODS  .  .  .  .  1 10 

THE  LONE  PINE  .  .  .  .  1 1 7 

L.  F.  WELLS : 

TOM  DARLING  .  .  .  .  .120 

MARY  BROWN  126 


130 


8 


MRS.  A.  M.  SHULTZ : 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLUME 

J.  R.  RIDGE: 

ER.INNA         .  .  .  .  .  .  1 24 

J.  C.  DUNCAN : 

THE  INTAGLIO  .  .  .  .  .  .118 

JAMES  LINEN : 

I  FEEL  FM  GROWING  AULD,  GUDE-WIFE       .  .  143 


i>  pollock. 


CH4NDOS   PICTURE 


^TT^HE  bell  far  off  beats  midnight  ;  in  the  dark 
-*•      The   sounds  have   lost  their   way  and  wander 

slowly  ; 

Through  the  dead  air,  beside  me,  things  cry,  "  Hark  !" 
And  whisper  words  unholy. 

A  hand,  as  soft  as  velvet,  taps  my  cheek  ; 

These  gusts  are  from  the  wings  of  unseen  vampires. 
How  the  thick  dust  on  that  last  tome  doth  speak 
Its  themes,  —  dead  Kings  and  Empires! 


10 


This  is  the  chamber ; — ruined,  waste,  forlorn ; 

Shred  of  its  old-time  gilding,  paint,  and  splendor ; 
And  is  there  none  its  dim  decay  to  mourn, 
In  mystic  strains  and  tender"? 

Why  waits  no  harper  gray,  with  elfin  hand 

On  tuneless  chords  to  harshly  hail  the  stranger — 
Who  treads  the  brink  of  an  enchanted  strand 
In  mist,  and  midnight  danger  ? 

I  watch,  and  am  not  weary ;  all  night  long 

The   stars  look   shimmering  through  the  yawning 

casement ; 

And  the  low  ring  of  their  unvarying  song 
I  hear  without  amazement. 

How  the  hours  pass ! — with  that  low  murmur  blent, 

That  is  a  part  of  time,  yet  thrills  us  only 
When  all  besides  is  silent,  and  close  pent 
The  heart  is  chilled  and  lonely. 


11 

I  watch,  and  am  not  weary : — I  have  heard 

Light  steps  and  whispers  pass  me,  all  undaunted : 
Have  seen  pale  specters  glide,  where  nothing  stirred— 
Because  the  place  is  haunted. 

And  wherefore  watch  I  fearless  ?    Wherefore  come 
These  things  with  windy  garments  hovering  round 

me? 
Whence  are  the  tongues,  the  tones,  the  stifled  hum. 

That  welcomed,  and  have  bound  me  ? 

Lo !  on  the  wall,  in  mist  and  gloom  high  reared, 
A  luminous  Face  adorns  the  structure  hoary  : 
Light-bearded,  hazel-eyed,  and  auburn-haired, 
And  bright  with  a  strange  glory. 

'Tis  but  the  semblance  of  a  long  dead  one— 

A  light  that  shines,  and  is  not; — clouds  are  oVr  it: 
Yet,  in  the  realm  of  thought,  it  beams  a  sun,— 
And  stars  grow  pale  before  it. 


12 


There  tend  the  tones ;  through  that  wan  atmosphere 

Glide  the  faint  specters  with  a  stately  motion ; 
Slowly,  as  cloudy  ships  to  sunset  steer 
Along  the  airy  ocean. 

Shades  of  the  great,  but  unremembered  dead, 

Mourn  there,  and  moaning,  ever  restless  wander;— 
For  in  the  presence  of  that  pictured  head 
Their  waning  shapes  grow  grander. 

And  here  watch  I,  beneath  those  eyes  sublime, 

A  listing  to  the  soft,  resounding  numbers, 

That  float  like  wind  along  the  waves  of  time, 

And  cheat  me  of  my  slumbers. 

But  who  shall  calm  the  restless  sprites  that  rove 

In  the  mute  presence  of  that  painted  Poet  ? 
In  vain  their  triumph  in  old  wars  or  love ; — 
No  future  times  shall  know  it. 


For,  "  Oh  !"  they  cry,  "  his  song  has  named  us  not ! 

He  stretched  no  hand  to  lift  the  pall  flung  o'er  us." 
And  still  they  moan  and  shriek — "  Forgot — forgot !" 
In  faint  and  shivering  chorus. 

Mightiest  of  all — my  master !    Dare  but  I 

Touch   the    shrunk    chords    thy  hand    divine   hath 

shaken, — 

How  would  the  heroes  of  the  days  gone  by 
Throng  round  me,  and  awaken ! 

Oh !  many  a  heart  the  worthiest — many  a  heart- 
Cold  now,  but  once  an  angel's  warm,  bright  dwelling, 
Waits  but  the  minstrel's  wizard  hand,  to  start 
With  life  immortal  swelling ! 

And  thou,   so    missed — where    art   thou  ?     On   what 

sphere 
Of  nightless  glory  hast  thou  built  thine  altar  ? 


H 

What  shining  hosts  bow  down,  thy  song  to  hear — 
Thy  heart,  the  harp  and  psalter  ? 

Thy  dust  is  mingled  with  thy  native  sod : 

Exhaled  like  dew  thy  soul,  that  ranged  unbounded  :- 
But  who  shall  dare  to  tread  where  Shakespeare  trod, 
Or  strike  the  harp  he  sounded  ? 


EVENING. 

air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 
And    the    clouds    come    in    through    the 

Golden  Gate : 

Phantom  fleets  they  seem  to  me, 
From  a  shoreless  and  unsounded  sea ; 
Their  shadowy  spars  and  misty  sails, 
Unshattered,  have  weathered  a  thousand  gales  : 
Slow  wheeling,  lo !  in  squadrons  gray, 
They  part,  and  hasten  along  the  bay ; 
Each  to  its  anchorage  finding  way. 
Where  the  hills  of  Saucelito  swell, 
Many  in  gloom  may  shelter  well ; 
And  others — behold — unchallenged  pass 
By  the  silent  guns  of  Alcatras  : 
No  greetings  of  thunder  and  flame  exchange 


i6 


The  armed  isle  and  the  cruisers  strange. 
Their  meteor  flags,  so  widely  blown, 
Were  blazoned  in  a  land  unknown ; 
So,  charmed  from  war,  or  wind,  or  tide, 
Along  the  quiet  wave  they  glide. 

What  bear  these  ships  ? — what  news,  what  freight, 

Do  they  bring  us  through  the  Golden  Gate  ? 

Sad  echoes  to  words  in  gladness  spoken, 

And  withered  hopes  to  the  poor  heart-broken : 

Oh,  how  many  a  venture  we 

Have  rashly  sent  to  the  shoreless  sea ! 

How  many  an  hour  have  you  and  I, 

Sweet  friend,  in  sadness  seen  go  by, 

While  our  eager,  longing  thoughts  were  roving 

Over  the  waste,  for  something  loving, 

Something  rich,  and  chaste,  and  kind, 

To  brighten  and  bless  a  lonely  mind ; 

And  only  waited  to  behold 


I? 

Ambition's  gems,  affection's  gold, 

Return  as  "  remorse,"  and  "  a  broken  vow," 

In  such  ships  of  mist  as  I  see  now. 

The  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 

And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 

Freighted  with  sorrow,  heavy  with  woe  ;— 

But  these  shapes  that  cluster,  dark  and  low, 

To-morrow  shall  be  all  a-glow ! 

In  the  blaze  of  the  coming  morn  these  mists, 

Whose  weight  my  heart  in  vain  resists, 

Will  brighten,  and  shine,  and  soar  to  heaven, 

In  thin  white  robes,  like  souls  forgiven; 

For  Heaven  is  kind,  and  every  thing, 

As  well  as  a  winter,  has  a  spring. 

So,  praise  to  God !  who  brings  the  day 

That  shines  our  regrets  and  fears  away ; 

For  the  blessed  morn  I  can  watch  and  wait, 

While  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


Cymcin   H.  (Sooftman. 

/A"   THE    SWING. 

f    TXDER  the  apple-blossoms,  from  the  time 
^~~^    The  sun  mistook  her  dimpled  cheeks  for  roses, 
And  printed  sunset  kisses  upon  each, 
I  swung  the  farmer's  only  daughter,  Nora. 
Oft,  as  she  rose  among  the  purple  boughs, 
Then,  dipping  gracefully,  swept  by  me  like 
A  spirit  in  a  dream,  the  blossoms  sent 
Such  wealth  of  fragrance  after  her,  I  timed 
My  breathing  to  the  motion  of  the  swing. 
And  when  I  told  the  boyish  fancy,  Nora — 
Shaking  the  tangled  sunbeams  from  her  hair — 


'9 

Laughed  outright,  till  she  would  have  fallen, 
Had  I  not  caught  the  rope  and  held  it  fast. 
Sifting  a  pretext  from  the  circumstance, 
I  quickly  said  she  must  not  swing  alone. 
My  meaning  fluttered  till  it  lightly  touched 
Upon  an  echoing  chord  within  her  breast, 
And,  smiling,  she  economized  the  space, 
And  so  made  room  for  both.     And  soon,  self-swung 
By  easy  art,  we  swept  in  airy  cycloids- 
Each  oscillation  weaving  some  new  thread 
Into  the  mottled  tissue  of  our  talk : 
As,  who  was  dead — who  married — who,  perchance. 
Was  like  to  be ;  and  whether  Emma  Lyle 
Would  wed  the  merchant's  or  the  doctor's  son. 
Somehow,  the  subtle  thread  that  tangles  hearts- 
Blind  butterflies ! — spun  out  its  golden  length 
Until  it  formed  the  widest  stripe  of  all. 

Nora  and  I  had  swung  before  olttimes ; 
Then,  strange — not  very  strange — to  say,  our  love 


20 


Too  took  a  swing,  until  we  quarreled  sadly. 

The  breach  had  nearly  healed, — so  far  wre  now 

Regarded  it  as  but  an  episode 

Peculiar  to  love's  growth  and  history. 

So,  laughing  over  it,  and  running  on 

From  this  to  that, — now  angling  in  the  past 

For  sunny  recollections,  half  forgotten ; 

Now  throwing  out  our  lines  into  the  future 

For  fair  uncertainties  ;  and  finally, 

Wrapping  the  present  round  us,  time,  and  space, 

And  change, — all  but  each  other, — we  forgot. 

And  when  the  vesper-light,  for  lovers  lit, 

Burned  to  its  socket  in  the  western  hills, 

The  swing  had  stopped — how  long  we  could  not  tell, 

And  vaguely  guess ; — nor  knew  we  until  then 

How  chill  the  air  was  blowing  from  the  sea. 

Knitting  her  hair  with  crimson  blooms,  I  said : 

"  May  apple-blossoms  form  the  bridal-wreath !" 

Then  blessing  twice  and  thrice  the  swing  that  rocked 


21 

The  discord  of  our  souls  asleep,  we  parted. 
And  as  her  feet,  like  silver  rain-drops,  tinkled 
Along  upon  the  steps,  I  faintly  heard 
Her  humming  to  herself  a  stanza  from 
The  song  I  wrote  her  scarce  a  year  before  :— 

"  True  love  is  quickened  once  a  year, 

When  vernal  buds  are  swelling; 
And  warbling  tongues  are  hushed  to  hear 

The  tales  their  mates  are  telling : 
The  heart  that  knows  no  winter's  storm 

Can  feel  no  summer's  gladness ; 
And  beauty  shows  its  fairest  form 

Smiling  through  tears  of  sadness." 

Then  to  my  home,  and  with  a  sweet  "  God  bless  her !' 

Fainting  upon  my  lips,  I  fell  asleep. 

But  still  the  half-heard  melody  flowed  round 

My  soul  unceasingly,  until  it  grew 


22 


Into  a  radiant  form,  whose  every  word 
And  motion,  like  itself,  seemed  music-born 
And  in  my  sinless  dreams  I  worshiped  it, 
Until  it  faded  in  a  rosy  dawn. 


THE    BROKEN   ROSE. 


^T^HE  meadow's  breath  comes  cool  and  sweet  ; 

-*-        A  light  wind  blows 
Day's  pyre  into  a  purple  flame  : 
A  time-worn  mound  is  at  my  feet, 
And  on  the  stone  a  cherished  name, 
And  broken  rose  : 

Self-broken  from  its  parent  stem, 

While  yet  the  dew 
And  flush  of  morn  lay  on  its  cheek  ; 
For  Love  had  brought  a  diadem 
As  false  as  falsest  tongue  can  speak  — 

A  wreath  of  rue. 


24 

You  blame  her,  you  who  never  felt 

The  weight  that  lay 
Like  heated  lead  upon  her  soul, — 
The  leaden  mass  that  would  not  melt, 
Which  death's  stern  hands  alone  could  roll, 

And  lift  away. 

God  holds  the  key  to  human  hearts ; 

We  only  heed 

The  surface  bubbles,  bright  and  thin, 
Or  broken,  fragmentary  parts  ; 
The  strange,  sealed  mystery  within 

We  cannot  read. 

Enough  for  me  that  Saints  conformed 

To  mortal  molds, 
With  human  imperfections  rife. 
I  loved  the  grace  and  virtue,  warmed 
By  Charity,  that  wrapped  her  life 

In  saintly  folds. 


I  lay  my  face  among  the  flowers, 

To  weep  for  her : 
The  violets  all  whisper — No  ! 
The  merle  rebukes  from  leafy  bowers, 
The  lindens,  bathed  in  sunset  glow, 

With  chidings  stir. 

All  nature  cries:  "  She  doth  not  sleep 

Beneath  the  sod ; 

Her  feet  have  left  the  shores  of  time, 
And  now  her  angel  fingers  sweep, 
Mid  swelling  anthemings  sublime, 

The  harp  of  God." 


€.  <S.  Paige. 

THE   APPROACH   OF  AUTUMN. 

T3  LOOMING  Summer's  dead  and  buried 
*~*    Let  the  mournful  cypress  wave ; 
Sad  September  now  is  strewing 

Faded  garlands  on  her  grave. 
Autumn  comes,  downcast  and  lonely ; 

Silently  she  seems  to  mourn 
For  the  gray  hairs  in  her  tresses, 

And  her  mantle  ripped  and  torn. 

In  the  corner  of  the  door-yard 

Sighs  a  clump  of  withered  reeds — 

Pinks  and  tulips  all  have  perished, 
And  the  garden  dons  its  "  weeds." 


27 

Where  the  blue-eyed  morning-glory 
In  its  hammock  swung  on  high, 

There  the  yellow-bellied  squashes — 
Hang  them ! — hang  themselves  to  dry. 

Golden  butter-cups  and  pansies 

Now  no  longer  gem  the  field, 
While  the  blossoms  that  still  linger, 

Not  a  "smell"  of  perfume  yield; 
Gaudy  dahlias  without  odor 

With  the  Autumn  days  have  come, 
Stiffly  nodding,  proudly  asking — 

"  Stranger,  don't  you  think  we're  some 

Frogs  have  ceased  their  nightly  peeping; 

Pollywogs  have  dropped  their  tails, 
And  are  grown  to  great  big  bullies, 

Croaking  in  the  gloomy  vales ; 


28 


By  the  pond  where  hangs  the  hazel 
Sits  a  "green-eyed  monster"  there, 

Groaning  like  a  tortured  demon, 
In  the  anguish  of  despair. 

On  the  pine-top  stands  a  preacher 

Known  as  Reverend  Mr.  Crow, 
Dressed  in  black,  and  preaching  patience 

To  a  hungry  flock  below ; 
But  in  vain  the  exhortation — 

Rather  heed  they  Nature's  laws ; 
So  they  leave  the  lonely  Parson, 

Persevering  in  his  caws. 

Though  Pomona  glad  the  market 
With  her  bounties  for  the  time, 

What  are  apples,  pears,  and  peaches 
To  a  chap  without  a  dime  *? — 


29 

To  a  poet,  who,  like  Autumn, 
Goes  in  very  seedy  clothes- 
Down  at  mouth  and  out  at  elbow- 
Down  at  heel  and  out  at  toes  ? 


Now  the  day  and  night  are  even  ;- 

Na'f-an'-a'f,  like  Johnny's  beer ; 
And  ^Eolus  gives  his  "blow-out" 

At  this  season  of  the  year. 
But  the  winds  will  sadly  murmur 

When  the  Equinox  is  o'er, 
And  the  dead  leaves  lightly  rustle 

Past  the  woodman's  cabin  door. 


Mournful  are  thy  days,  O  Autumn, 
Robbing  flow'rets  of  their  bloom; 

Few,  ah,  few  are  left  to  blossom 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb ! 


3° 

Still  Life's  pleasures,  green  as  ever, 
Must  not  fade  and  fall  till  ripe ; 

So,  September,  swing  thy  sickle, 
While  I  calmly  smoke  my  pipe ! 


(Emilie 


BLOSSOM    AND    FRUIT. 

YT  THY  weep  for  childhood's  joys  ? 

What  are   they  but  a  round  of  tricks  and 

funning, 

A  vast  bazar  of  toys, 
And  hide-go-seek,  and  laughs,  and  cries,  and  cunning  ? 

As  well  grieve  for  the  noise 
The  brooklet  makes,  when  to  the  river  running ! 

When  fruit  is  in  its  prime, 
Who  cares  for  petals  dropped  in  fragrant  flutter 
In  the  sweet  blossom-time  ? — 


32 

Or,  when  the  strong  man  burning  thoughts  doth 

utter, 

Who  sighs  for  the  droll  chime 
When  his  queer  baby-tongue  began  to  stutter  2 

Never  doth  noonday  sigh 
To  be  the  dawn  again — with  crimson  flushes ! 

No  oak-tree  towering  high 
Would  be  a  bush  again  among  the  bushes ! 

Only  weak  man  doth  cry 
For  babyhood,  and  nursery  tales  and  hushes ! 

Our  brightest  hours  fly  fast ! 
And  if  we  pine  for  Life's  poor  frail  beginning, 

The  golden  Now  is  Past, 
While  we  look  backward  in  regretful  sinning  : 

Joy  waits,  and  Heaven  is  vast ! 
And  both  are  for  our  seeking  and  our  winning. 


33 

And  Time  is  but  a  school, 
Where  all  great  souls  to  some  broad  truth  awaken  ;- 

A  mighty  vestibule 
Where  from  fur  feet  the  mortal,  dust  is  shaken, 

And  where  from  ceaseless  rule 
The  hungering,  thirsting  heart  at  last  is  taken. 


WINTERING. 

T  KNOW  of  a  quaint  old  farmer, 

•*"     More  than  threescore  years  and  ten, 

With  a  lighter  heart  and  warmer 

Than  the  most  of  younger  men ; 
One  blithesome  and  free  as  the  brooklet 

That  gurgles  through  the  glen. 

He  rises  at  the  peep  of  day 

With  the  very  earliest  bird, 
And  leads  his  cows  to  pasture 

With  some  magical,  queer  word ; 
And  the  scented  dew  of  the  clover 

Is  first  by  his  brisk  feet  stirred. 


35 

He  has  a  child's  complexion, 

Like  delicate  tinted  wax ; 
But  the  limbs  are  rough  and  hardy 

That  shoulder  the  old  ax, 
And  the  hair  that  drifts  o'er  his  forehead 

Is  bleached  like  the  threads  of  flax. 

The  young  trees  fall  a-quivering, 

The  chip-pile  grows  anew, 
Though  he  says  he  will  never  burn  them, 

Or,  if  any,  very  few ; 
For  he  thinks  he  will  never  winter 

Another  season  through. 

You  may  see  him  in  the  spring-time, 
When  the  first  young  violets  peep, 

Preparing  seed  for  a  harvest 
For  other  hands  to  reap ; 

For  he  knows  the  snows  of  winter 
Will  find  him  fast  asleep. 


You  may  find  him  in  the  summer-day 

Before  the  noontide  heat, 
With  birch  and  spice-wood  leaves,  and  flowers, 

And  berries  on  strings  of  wheat ; 
And  crowds  of  children,  crazy  with  joy, 

Dancing  around  his  feet. 

Oh,  lightsome,  happy,  happy  hours, 

When  such  a  little  thing 
As  strawberries  in  a  birch-bark  cup, 

Or  raspberries  on  a  string, 
Can  set  the  young  feet  wild  with  glee, 

And  the  young  heart  fluttering. 

You  may  see  him  in  the  autumn, 
When  the  hickory-nuts  hail  down, 

And  chestnuts  open  their  burry  lips 
And  show  their  teeth  of  brown, 

Gathering  herbs  for  the  sick,  or  nuts 
For  the  children  of  the  town. 


37 

Passing  a  field  of  yellow  corn 

He  will  heave  a  little  sigh, 
And  say  he  thinks  his  husking-time 

Is  very,  very  nigh, 
When  the  Angel  of  Death  shall  take  his  soul 

And  throw  the  old  husk  by. 

I  think  you  will  see  this  good  old  man 

Full  ten  long  years  from  now, 
Just  ready  to  go  as  soon  as  the  hay 

Is  gathered  in  the  mow, 
Or,  at  farthest,  when  the  apples 

Are  shaken  from  the  bough. 

Ever  wearing  the  trusting  look 

Of  a  little  child  at  prayers ; 
And  when  the  noiseless  messenger 

Steals  on  him  unawares, 
It  will  only  seem  like  a  toil  laid  by, 

And  a  dying  away  of  cares. 


PARTING. 


F  I  ^HE  sun  is  lying  in  his  western  chamber, 
-*-      The  stately  ships  are  sailing  on  the  bay, 
And  cloud-hands  spread  a  coverlet  of  amber, 

Bordered  with  brown,  above  the  drowsy  day : 
The  opaline  skies  will  shine  the  same  to-morrow, 

And  white  sails  pass  gilded  with  amber  light ; 
But  the  coming  shadow  of  a  parting  sorrow 

Shall  dim  the  glory  of  to-morrow  night. 

Now,  in  the  West,  the  radiance  grows  dimmer, 
The  first  faint  star  comes,  shining  tremulously, 

And  red  rays  from  the  distant  light-house  glimmer 
Across  the  foam-capped  waters  of  the  sea ; 


39 

Tomorrow's  dusk  will  bring  the  trembling  starlight, 
The  wind  will  chase  the  white  waves  to  the  shore, 

And  fitfully  again  will  come  the  far  light 

Of  warning  lamp — but  thou  wilt  come  no  more. 

Ever  and  everywhere  specters  of  parting 

Stretch  forth  their  weird  hands,  saddening  our  mirth  ; 
Ever  and  everywhere  hot  tears  are  starting, 

Where  stands  the  empty  chair  upon  the  hearth  : 
But  Nature  brightly  smiles  though  hearts  are  broken, 

Taking  at  last  her  children  to  her  breast, 
And  kindly  hides  in  her  mute  mounds  all  token 

Of  the  great  heart-throbs  of  a  life's  unrest. 


THE  POET. 


\  YOUNG  bird  rocked  on  an  apple  spray, 
•^  -^  A-trilling  a  little  lay; 
Not  full-grown  was  the  yellow  coat 

Wrapping  his  slender  throat, 
And  the  piping  notes  had  not  grown  strong, 

But  trembled  in  the  song. 

A  school-boy  cried,  with  thoughtless  glee, 
"  I  will  try  my  skill  on  thee ;" 

And  the  apple-blooms  with  blood  grew  red, 
Where  the  poor  heart  quivering  bled. 

Now,  sad  winds  through  the  branches  mourn 
For  the  song  that  died  unborn. 


4l 

A  poet  sat  in  a  solitude, 

Playing  a  faint  prelude- 
Snatches  of  tunes  and  faltering  words, 

And  one  or  two  grand  chords— 
And  angel  lips  to  his  young  ear  bent 

As  he  touched  the  instrument. 

A  critic,  skilled,  and  learned,  and  strong 

(But  who  never  sang  a  song), 
Aimed  a  cruel  arrow  carelessly 

As  the  shy  strain  floated  by ; 
It  brushed  the  whispering  spirit's  wing, 
It  broke  the  best  and  finest  string, 
And  sent  the  young  heart  sorrowing; 
And  angel  songs,  that  the  poet  heard, 
Never  found  tune  or  word. 


TWO    COMRADES    IN  ARMS. 

u  /COMRADE!  I  hear  the  beating  of  a  drum, 

^^      Have  re-enforcements  come  9" 
"'  There  is  no  sound,  save  a  lost  whippowil 
Crying  from  yonder  hill." 

-4  Comrade  !  I  see  a  spacious  mansion  stand, 

Built  by  my  grandsire's  hand." 
a  No  honored  ancestry  have  left  a  stone 

That  I  may  call  my  own." 

"  Beside  its  hearth  my  gentle  lady  warms 

The  sweet  child  in  her  arms." 
"  No  tender  wife  upon  her  loving  breast 

Lulls  babes  of  mine  to  rest." 


43 

44  See !  how  her  bright  hair  falls  in  golden  showers, 

Twined  with  autumnal  flowers." 
44  No  waving  hair,  by  fragrant  flowerets  pressed, 

Has  my  rough  hand  caressed." 

44  On  what  enchanted  wings  the  swift  time  flies, 
Charmed  by  those  heavenly  eyes." 

"  How  dreary,  and  how  long,  the  sad  hours  seem ! 
Alas  !  /  cannot  dream." 

*4  Again  I  hear  the  beating  of  a  drum  : 

Comrade,  has  the  foe  come  ?" 
44  Yes,  that  great  foe — or  friend — we  all  must  meet, 

Who  never  knows  defeat." 

*  •::-  -x-  * 

On  the  battle-ground,  at  the  break  of  day, 

Two  lifeless  soldiers  lay ; 
One  face  looked  pitiful  with  yearning  pain, 

As  one  who  prays  in  vain ; 


44 

The  other  wore  a  look  divinely  blest. 

And,  from  his  pulseless  breast, 
The  picture  of  a  lady  and  a  child 

Looked  up  to  him  and  smiled. 


3na   D.  £aolbritb. 

CUPID  KISSED  ME. 

T     OVE  and  I,  one  summer  day, 
*^    Took  a  walk  together  : 
Oh,  how  beautiful  the  way 

Through  the  blooming  heather ! 
Far-off  bells  rang  matin-chimes. 

Birds  sang,  silver-voicing; 
And  our  happy  hearts  beat  time 

To  the  earth's  rejoicing. 
Well-a-day!  ah,  well-a-day! 

Then  pale  Grief  had  missed  me. 
And  Mirth  and  I  kept  company. 

Ere  Cupid  kissed  me. 


46 

Love  ran  idly  where  he  would, 

Child-like,  all  unheeding; 
I  as  carelessly  pursued 

The  pathway  he  was  leading, 
Till  upon  the  shadowed  side 

Of  a  cool,  swift  river, 
Where  the  sunbeams  smote  the  tide 

Goldenly  a-quiver : 
Well-a-day  !  ah,  well-a-day  ! 

i4  Love,"  I  cried,  "  come,  rest  thee.' 
Ah,  but  Heart  and  I  were  gay, 

Ere  Cupid  kissed  me  ! 

Shadows  of  the  summer-cloud 

Fell  on  near  and  far  land, 
Fragrantly  the  branches  bowed 

Every  leafy  garland ; 
While,  with  shining  head  at  rest, 

Next  my  heart  reclining, 


47 

Love's  white  arms,  with  soft  caress, 
Round  my  neck  were  twining; 

Till — ah,  well !  ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Love,  who  can  resist  thee  *?— 

On  the  river-banks  that  day, 
Cupid  kissed  me. 

Woe  is  me !  in  cheerless  plight, 

By  the  cold,  sad  river, 
Seek  I  Love,  who,  taken  flight, 

Comes  no  more  forever- 
Love,  from  whom  more  pain  than  bliss 

Every  heart  obtaineth; 
For  the  joy  soon  vanishes, 

While  the  pang  remaincth. 
Well-a-day  !  ah,  well-a-day ! 

Would,  Love,  /  had  missed  thee ! 
Peace  and  I  are  twain  for  aye, 

Since  Cupid  kissed  me ! 


THE    MOTHER'S    GRIEF. 


OO  fair  the  sun  rose,  yester-morn, 
The  mountain-cliffs  adorning ! 
The  golden  tassels  of  the  corn 

Danced  in  the  breath  of  morning ; 
The  cool,  clear  stream  that  runs  before, 

Such  happy  words  was  saying ; 
And  in  the  open  cottage  door 

My  pretty  babe  was  playing. 
Aslant  the  sill  a  sunbeam  lay— 

I  laughed,  in  careless  pleasure, 
To  see  his  little  hand  essay 

To  grasp  the  shining  treasure. 


49 

To-day  no  shafts  of  golden  flame 

Across  the  sill  are  lying; 
To-day  I  call  my  baby's  name, 

And  hear  no  lisped  replying : 
To-day — ah,  baby  mine,  to-day — 

God  holds  thee  in  His  keeping ! 
And  yet  I  weep,  as  one  pale  ray 

Breaks  in  upon  thy  sleeping ; 
I  weep  to  see  its  shining  band 

Reach,  with  a  fond  endeavor, 
To  where  the  little  restless  hands 

Are  crossed  in  rest  forever ! 


A  LOST  DAT. 


TT^ROM  the  shadowy  shores  of  Dreamland, 
^      In  a  far  and  ethereal  zone, 
I  have  come  unto  earth ;  and  I  know  not 
Where  the  beautiful  Day  has  flown ! 

For  gazing,  at  early  dawning, 

Where  bright  in  the  radiant  East 

The  glittering  sun  swam,  golden, 
Through  billows  of  crimson  mist — 

My  soul  floated  out  on  the  ether, 

Swift-winged  and  free  as  the  Light — 

Nor  ever,  till  dawn  grew  to  darkness, 
Returned  from  its  airy  flight. 


I  never  shall  know  of  its  journey : 
I  have  questioned,  all  in  vain, 

The  source  of  the  wonderful  visions 
That  are  thronging  my  puzzled  brain. 

Strange  voices;  strange,  beautiful  faces; 

Strange  fashions  of  mien  and  dress, 
And  words  whose  mystical  meaning 

I  have  striven  in  vain  to  guess ; 

^  Strange  cities,  that  mirror  the  sunlight"7 
<    From  minaret,  mosque,  and  dome  ;^ 
<Ancl  tropical  islands,  up-springing> 
<Z  From  couches  of  feathery  foam — > 

All  glimmer,  and  gleam,  and  glisten, 
Floating  on  in  a  magical  stream, 

Yet  shadowed,  and  vague,  and  misty 
As  the  memory  of  a  dream. 


And  I  stand,  as  at  early  dawning; 

But  where,  in  the  radiant  East, 
The  glittering  sun  swam,  golden, 

Through  billows  of  crimson  mist, 

There  is  only  this  soft,  white  crescent, 
And  the  daisy-faced  stars,  full-blown 

In  the  garden  of  Night ;  and  I  know  not 
Where  the  beautiful  Day  has  flown. 


"IN    THE    PO  UTS." 

HEEKS  of  an  ominous  crimson, 

Eyebrows  arched  to  a  frown, 
Pretty  red  lips  a-quiver 

With  holding  their  sweetness  down 

Glance  that  is  never  lifted 

From  the  hands  that,  in  cruel  play, 
Are  tearing  the  white  rose  petals, 

And  tossing  their  hearts  away. 

Only  to  think  that  a  whisper, 

An  idle,  meaningless  jest, 
Should  stir  such  a  world  of  passion 

In  a  dear  little  loving  breast. 


54 


Yet  ever  for  such  light  trifles 
Will  lover  and  lass  fall  out, 

And  the  humblest  lad  grow  haughty, 
And  the  gentlest  maiden  pout. 

Of  course,  I  must  sue  for  pardon ; 

For  what)  I  can  hardly  say ! — 
But,  deaf  to  opposing  reason, 

A  woman  will  have  her  way. 

And  when,  in  despite  her  frowning, 
The  scorn,  the  grief,  and  the  rue, 

,She  looks  so  bewitchingly  pretty, 
Why — what  can  a  fellow  do  ? 


.     .  tlkbb* 


THE    JUNE    MONTH. 

F  I  ^HE  waning  of  the  sweet  May  moon 

June's  laughing  face  discloses; 
Her  apron  filled  with  butter-cups, 
Her  bosom  red  with  roses. 

The  blossom  and  the  bursting  bud 

Are  woven  in  her  tresses  ; 
And  every  breeze  that  fans  her  cheek 

Comes  laden  with  caresses. 

The  birds  all  leave  the  open  plains, 
And  seek  the  hazel  covers  — 


Some  months  were  meant  for  married  life, 
But  June  was  made  for  lovers ! 

Perhaps  you've  seen  a  little  maid, 
With  lips  like  rare-ripe  cherries  ? 

We're  going  down  the  meadow  path 
This  afternoon — for  berries. 

I'll  tell  you  more  about  our  walk 

Before  the  summer  closes ; 
So  fill  a  cup  to  laughing  June, 

And  wreathe  its  brim  with  roses. 


DAS    MEERMADCHEN. 

,  Spring  it  is  blithe,  and  Summer  is  gay 
The  Autumn  golden,  and  Winter  gray  ! 


But  the  seasons  come  and  the  seasons  go, 
All  alike  to  me  in  their  ebb  and  flow, 

Since  the  day  I  rode  by  the  cheating  sea, 
And  one  of  its  maidens  had  speech  with  me. 

Her  skin  was  whiter  than  words  can  speak, 
The  blush  of  the  sea-shell  lit  her  cheek. 

Her  lips  had  ripened  in  coral  caves, 

And  her  eyes  were  blue  as  the  deeper  waves. 

5 


58 

Her  long  yellow  hair  fell  soft  and  free, 
Like  a  shower  of  amber  upon  the  sea. 

"  Knight !  gallant  Knight !  a  boon  I  pray- 
Give  me  to  ride  thy  charger  gray !" 

44  Oh !  ships  for  the  sea,  but  steeds  for  the  shore- 
I'll  give  thee  a  boat  with  a  golden  oar !" 

"  Nay,  gallant  Knight !  no  charm  has  the  sea — 
I  would  dwell  on  the  green  earth  ever  with  thee ! 

For  her  words  were  fair  as  her  face  was  fair ; 
Had  she  asked  my  soul,  it  was  hers,  I  swear ! 

And  I  led  her,  light  as  sea-birds  flit, 

Where  my  steed  stood  champing  his  golden  bit. 

The  stirrups  of  silver  were  wrought  in  Spain, 
My  hand  into  hers  put  the  silken  rein. 


59 

And  that  was  the  last,  though  the  stars  are  old, 
I  saw  of  my  steed  with  his  housings  of  gold. 

Was  ever  such  folly  in  all  the  world  wide  ? 

But  who  would  have  thought  a  mermaid  could  ride 

Or  a  maiden  of  earth,  of  air,  or  the  wave, 

Should  fly  from  her  love  with  the  wings  he  gave  *? 

Faithless  and  loveless  I  walk  by  the  shore — 
Never  a  mermaid  has  speech  with  me  more. 

But  this  brings  not  back  my  charger  gray, 
Nor  the  false,  false  love  who  rode  him  awav ! 


/>   ,  O-T 


THE    GOING    OF  MT  BRIDE. 

BY  the  brink  of  the  River  our  parting  was  fond, 
But  I  whispered  the  words  soft  and  low ; 
For  a  band  of  bright  angels  was  waiting  beyond, 
And  my  bride  of  a  day  was  to  go  : 

Was  to  go  from  our  shore,  with  its  headlands  of  years, 
On  a  water  whose  depths  were  untold ; 

And  the  boat  was  to  float  on  this  River  of  Tears, 
Till  it  blent  with  an  ocean  of  gold. 

Our  farewell  was  brief  as  the  fall  of  a  tear— 

The  minutes  like  winged  spirits  flew, 
When  my  bride  whispered  low  that  a  shallop  drew 
near, 

And  the  beck  of  the  Boatman  she  knew. 


6i 


Then  I  spoke  in  one  kiss  all  the  passion  of  years, 
For  I  knew  that  our  parting  was  nigh ; 

Yet  I  saw  not  the  end — I  was  blinded  by  tears, 
And  a  light  had  gone  out  from  the  sky. 

But  I  caught  the  faint  gleam  of  an  outdrifting  sail, 

And  the  dip  of  a  silver-tipped  oar ; 
And  I  knew  by  the  low  rustling  sigh  of  the  gale, 

That  a  spirit  had  gone  from  the  shore. 

All  alone  in  my  grief  I  now  sit  on  the  sand, 
Where  so  often  she  sat  by  my  side ; 

And  I  long  for  the  shallop  to  come  to  the  strand, 
That  again  I  may  sit  by  my  bride. 


MY  RIVAL. 

OOFT  music  swells  out  on  the  night, 
^    The  air  is  a-throb  with  perfume, 
And  the  feet  of  the  dancers  fall  light — 
Yet  Death  crouches  low  in  the  room. 


One  stands  him,  all  smiling  and  bland, 
Just  there  where  the  tapestries  fall ; 

The  wine-cup  he  holds  in  his  hand 
Throws  a  dabble  of  red  on  the  wall. 

His  fool-face  hot  flushes  with  love, 

And  he  whispers  a  name  in  his  wine — 

The  white  moon  that  looked  from  above 
And  the  stars  know  the  woman  is  mine. 


63 

It  were  better  he  said  him  a  prayer : 

Were  the  man  not  a  fool,  he  would  feel 

A  shudder  of  death  in  the  air, 

And  the  sharp,  sudden  tingle  of  steel. 

See !  he  smiles  to  himself  as  he  sips 
Of  his,  wine  in  the  alcove  apart ; 
Will  he  smile  when  my  dagger's  thin  lips 

Shall  drink  the  red  wine  of  his  heart  *? 

v 


UNDER     THE    STJRS. 

T    OW  and  dark  are  the  brows  of  night, 
•*"-'   The  dews  drip  dank  from  the  skies — 
Warmer  than  rain,  but  colder  than  tears — 
Over  there  where  the  dead  man  lies. 

Last  evening  the  light  of  the  moon 
Floated  down  like  her  yellow  hair ; 

And  Earth  lay  asleep,  like  a  bride, 
With  shoulders  uncovered  and  bare. 

But  to-night  the  moonbeams  fall, 
All  shorn  of  their  golden  grace, 

Like  a  grave-cloth,  white  and  thin, 
Folded  over  the  dead  man's  face. 


65 

Warm  and  strong  is  the  clasp  of  love — 
Stronger  still  is  the  blow  of  hate : 

Why  should  one  care,  when  all  is  paid, 
Whether  the  reck'ning  come  early  or  late ! 

How  it  glitters — a  sharp-edged  knife  ! 

The  stars  looked  wondering  down ; 
But  never  a  tap  of  their  silver  bells 

To  waken  the  slumbering  town. 

He  was  pious  and  good,  she  said : 
Was  it  wrong  by  the  churchly  code, 

When  the  man  was  bound  for  heaven, 
That  I  helped  him  along  the  road  *? 

He  was  my  rival  once— 

Whose  is  the  better  fate  ? 
He  married  the  girl  of  his  love — 

I  murdered  the  man  of  my  hate ! 


tDarren 

AT  ANCHOR. 


\    SAILOR  by  the  green  home-shore, 

While  seas  are  ebbing  from  his  view, 
Doth  all  his  early  joys  renew  : 
He  sings  the  songs  he  sang  of  yore  ; 

He  spies  his  little  cot,  he  smiles 
With  a  full  joy  ne'er  felt  before  : 
He  holds  that  one  bare  prospect  more 

Than  all  the  Summer  of  the  isles. 

The  quiet  home  is  his  ;  the  trees 

Sprang  from  the  seeds  his  grandsires  laid 


67 

Among  the  mold  ;  within  the  glade 
The  myrtles  rustle  in  the  breeze, 

Above  a  treasured  little  grave, 
His  early  loss,  his  first  deep  woe ; 
Not  any  land  that  he  may  know 

Beyond  the  purple  of  the  wave 

Hath  such  a  jewel  in  its  breast. 

He  loves  each  rock,  and  stream,  and  dell 
'Tis  here  he  only  cares  to  dwell, 

Tis  here  he  ever  longs  to  rest. 

This  is  his  home  of  joy  and  ease ; 
And  better  is  the  myrtle  tomb 
Than  all  the  heavy  dusks  that  gloom 

The  groves  of  spice  beyond  the  seas. 


A  FANCY. 

YT  THAT  would  you  call  the  Sun,  as  he  falls 

Out  of  the  heavens,  while  shadows  dim 
And  rosy  are  draping  the  broad  sky-walls — 
What  would  you  call  the  Sun,  as  he  falls 
Far  down  to  the  ocean's  rim  ? 

All  of  the  sky  is  gathering  webs 

Of  shadow  about  it,  and  the  tide — 
The  lazy  tide — as  it  flows  and  ebbs, 
Is  quite  entangled  with  crimson  webs, 
And  with  crimson  bloom  is  dyed. 


69 

Perhaps  the  Sun  is  an  egg  of  gold 

In  a  nest  of  cloud,  and  Night  must  be 
A  fidgety  hen — for,  look  !  she  has  rolled 
Out  of  the  nest  the  egg  of  gold, 
And  spilled  the  yelk  in  the  sea ! 


THROUGH    THE    SHADOWS. 

\  LL  in  a  dream  i'  the  twilight, 

Stars  glimmer  out  in  their  glee ; 
I  hear  the  low  murmur  of  far-off 
Ripples  of  tropic  sea. 

The  sorrowful  Sun,  in  the  west, 
Is  bleeding  to  death  in  the  wave, 

Sraining  and  tinting  with  crimson 
The  corals  that  fashion  his  grave. 

Out  through  the  mists  and  the  vapors, 
The  cloudy  wreaths  and  the  rings, 

The  sunlight  has  flown  like  a  butterfly 
Brushing  the  gold  from  its  wings. 


A  quiet  is  coming  and  folding 
Our  troubles  away,  and  our  woes 

Are  hushed  in  the  cool,  fragrant  shadows, 
Like  bees  in  the  heart  of  a  rose. 

Come  on,  little  stars,  all  silver, 
For  the  terrible  Sun  has  gone, 

And  forth  from  the  castle  of  shadows 
The  Moon  has  set  sail  for  the  dawn. 

Pale  are  the  stars,  for  the  morning 
Is  dawning  fresh  as  the  May— 

So  through  the  shadows  we  wander  forth, 
Seeking  the  perfect  day. 


MARS. 

IV  TOW  Mars  steals  over  the  water ; 
^          He  is  marching  down  from  the  sky- 
Great  Mars,  with  his  golden  helmet, 
And  the  golden  flame  in  his  eye. 

The  sea  is  still,  for  the  ripples 

Are  hushed  at  the  god's  slow  tread ; 

And  a  line  of  lights  is  trailing 
The  wave,  like  a  burning  thread. 

Sad  Mars !  he  is  wearied  with  marching 

And  wandering  off  is  he, 
While  he  nods  his  yellow  helmet 

And  thrusts  his  lance  in  the  sea. 


73 

Faltering  Mars  !  with  his  marching 

Wearied  he  seems  to  be ; 
While  he  tips  his  helmet,  and  merges 

His  golden  lance  in  the  sea. 


3L  KftttinU. 

TERRAQUEOUS. 

[From  "ANSTED'S  GREAT  STONE  BOOK."] 
FIRST   PERIOD. 

BARE  rocks  and  vacuous  water — 
Liquid  and  solid  wastes  alternate  span 
Primeval  Earth  about — 

No  Plant,  no  Beast,  no  Man. 

SECOND   PERIOD. 

Cycles  of  unrecorded  time — 
Slow  transmutations,  vast  upheavals,  shocks 
Dawning  of  vegetable  life- 
Lichens  upon  the  rocks. 


THIRD    PERIOD. 

Centuries  of  rain  and  sunshine- 
Fins  flash  the  ocean-depths,  the  land 
Teems  with  crude  animation- 
Brutes  wallow  on  the  sand. 

FOURTH    PERIOD. 

More  sluggish  centuries  lapse- 
Forests  surmount  the  hills — umbrageous  gloom 
Incense  exhales  and  melodies  are  piped— 
Birds  twitter — Flowers  bloom. 

FIFTH    PERIOD. 

The  age  of  final  preparation  wanes- 
Declared  the  consummation  of  the  Plan  ; 
The  House  is  ready — lo,  its  master  comes— 
The  "Jack  of  all  Trades"— Man! 


76 


A  link  discovered  wanting — 
A  section  to  complete  the  circlet  human  ; 
The  Man  is  less  a  rib,  and  straightway  finds 
Himself— plus  Woman ! 

SIXTH    PERIOD. 

Generations  of  masters  come  and  go — 
The  house  absorbs  its  tenants — all  is  mystery ; 
Reason  toddles  a-pace,  babbles,  and  founds 
Traditional  History. 

SEVENTH    PERIOD. 

Inventions  and  contentions — 
Wars,  famines,  feasts,  and  plagues ; 
Prophets  and  puppets ;  crucifixions,  trinkets — 
Reformers  on  bow-legs. 

Not  yet  the  end — perhaps  not  yet  the  middle— 


77 


Uncertainty  its  fullness  still  retains ; 
Yet,  for  their  derivation — stone  and  water- 
How  wonderful  are  brains ! 


MERIDIEM. 

TTMLL  once  again  with  wine,  the  best  and  last, 
•*"      The  hour  has  come  the  dregs  are  to  be  cast- 
The  regal  opulence  of  Youth  is  past. 

Here  let  dear  memories  mingle,  as  is  fit — 
The  tunes  of  Song,  the  genius-gleams  of  Wit ; 
The  glow  of  embers  ne'er  to  be  relit. 

Fill,  fill !  fill  high !  Fill  to  the  crystal  brim  ! 
And  while  the  sparkling  bubble-jewels  swim, 
Drain  to  the  echo  of  a  dying  hymn. 


79 

Drain  to  the  murky  bottom  of  the  glass — 
Drain  while  the  Noon  of  Life  is  at  high  mass— 
The  shiver  of  the  cups  shall  cry — "  Alas !" 

Join  in  with  reckless  tongues  of  hopeless  men, 
The  closing  cadence  of  the  grand  HAS  BEEN— 
Ring  out  this  requiem  of  a  Soul's  amen ! 

Oh,  for  the  supple  bow  for  aye  unbent ! 
Oh,  for  the  jocund  sense  of  young  content! 
Oh,  for  the  star-designs  the  storms  have  rent ! 

Oh,  for  the  passion-second's  crimson  flight ! 
Oh,  for  the  moments  of  supreme  delight ! 
Oh,  for  the  full  moon  and  the  honey  night ! 

Oh,  for  the  red,  red  draught  of  drunken  blisses ! 

Oh,  for  the  aromatic  rapture  kisses ! 

Oh,  for  the  love-blooms  and  the  dream  abysses ! 


8o 

Oh,  a  million  times !  and  all  in  vain — 
The  Spring  will  ne'er  return  to  me  again, 
With  dappled  skies  and  balmy  drops  of  rain. 

The  lustrous  fires  that  flushed  me  full  of  zest, 
The  amplitude  of  warmth  that  overblest, 
Have  flamed ! — and  sunk  to  everlastin^  rest. 


In  Indian  Summer  retrospect  I  view 

The  gorgeous  hours  my  wanton  luxury  slew, 

The  while  their  velvet  lips  were  wet  with  dew — 

Dash  down  the  glasses !    Let  the  fragments  lay — 
Come,  penance  of  exhaustion  and  decay, 
This,  this  is  Pleasure's  terrible  death-day ! 

O  vanished  fragrance  of  the  morning  air! 
O  torrid  splendors,  lost  beyond  repair ! 
The  icy  night-winds  cut  me  to  despair ! 


8i 


And  why  do  I  despair  ?    'Tis  that  I  think 
I  never  more  will  hear  god-glasses  clink, 
And  never  more  of  Nature's  blood-wine  drink. 

But  say  you,  when  I'm  gone,  "  His  heart  was  bold ;' 
And  say  you,  too,  "  He  was  no  slave  to  gold, 
And  laid  no  joys  away  to  rust  and  mold." 

Now  with  the  glinting  fragments  at  my  back, 
I  face  the  Sun  upon  his  paling  track, 
Declining  swiftly  into  darkness  black. 

Come  others  to  the  revel's  vacant  seat, 
With  glasses  brimmed,  and  lips  of  virgin  sweet- 
After  the  carnival  we'll  fitly  greet. 

O  Spring!    O  Summer!    O  unsunned  decline! 
Sad  season  of  dead  thirsts,  I  now  am  thine— 
At  last  the  Flagon-World  is  drained  of  wine  J 


TRANSITION. 

WHEN  leaves  grow  sear,  all  things  take  sombre 
hue, 

The  wild  winds  waltz  no  more  the  wood-side  through, 
All  day  the  faded  grass  is  wet  with  dew. 

A  gauzy  nebula  films  the  pensive  sky, 

The  golden  bee  supinely  buzzes  by, 

In  silent  flocks  the  blue-birds  southward  fly. 

The  forests'  cheeks  are  crimsoned  o'er  with  shame, 

The  cynic  Frost  unlaces  every  lane, 

The  ground  with  scarlet  blushes  is  a-flame ! 


83 

The  one  we  love  grows  lustrous-eyed  and  sad, 
With  sympathy  too  thoughtful  to  be  glad, 
While  all  the  colors  round  are  running  mad. 

The  sunbeams  kiss  askant  the  sombre  hill, 
The  naked  woodbine  climbs  the  window-sill, 
The  breaths  the  noons  exhale  are  faint  and  chill. 

The  ripened  nuts  drop  downward  day  by  day, 
Sounding  the  hollow  tocsin  of  decay, 
And  bandit  squirrels  smuggle  them  away. 

Vague  sighs  and  scents  pervade  the  atmosphere, 
Sounds  of  invisible  stirrings  hum  the  ear, 
The  morning's  lash  reveals  a  frozen  tear. 

The  hermit  mountains  gird  themselves  with  mail, 
Mocking  the  thrashers  with  an  echo-flail, 
The  while  the  afternoons  grow  curt  and  pale. 


84 

Inconstant  Summer  to  the  tropics  flees, 

And,  as  her  rose-sails  catch  the  amorous  breeze, 

Lo !  bare  brown  Autumn  trembles  to  her  knees. 

The  stealthy  nights  encroach  upon  the  days, 
The  Earth  with  sudden  whiteness  is  a-blaze, 
And  all  her  paths  are  lost  in  crystal  maze ! 

Tread  lightly  where  the  dainty  violets  blew, 
Where  to  Spring  winds  their  soft  eyes  open  flew, 
Safely  they  sleep  the  churlish  Winter  through. 

Though  all  Life's  portals  are  indiced  with  woe, 
And  frozen  pearls  are  all  the  world  can  show, 
Feel !  Nature's  breast  is  warm  beneath  the  snow. 

Look  up,  dear  mourner !  still  the  blue  expanse, 
Serenely  tender,  bends  to  catch  thy  glance ; 
Within  thy  tears  sibyllic  sunbeams  dance ! 


With  blooms  full  lapped  again  will  smile  the  land ; 
The  pall  is  but  the  folding  of  His  hand, 
Anon  with  fuller  glories  to  expand. 

The  dumb  heart,  hid  beneath  the  wintry  tree, 
Will  throb  again,  and  so  the  torpid  bee 
Upon  the  ear  will  drone  his  drowsy  glee. 

So  shall  the  truant  blue-birds  backward  fly ; 
And  all  loved  things  that  vanish  or  that  die, 
Return  to  us  in  some  sweet  by-and-by. 


TRIAL. 

'  \\ 7HAT!  pouting  and  cross?  What  is  it,  love? 

Only  a  frown,  and  not  a  word  ?" 
Pray,  had  I  angered  her,  or  perchance 
The  depths  of  her  little  being  stirred? 

Cross,  so  cross — and  a  great,  dark  frown 
There,  where  the  sunshine  always  lingers; 

Spitefully  sewing,  she  doesn't  heed 

The  needle  that  pricks  her  restless  fingers. 

Pray,  can  I  smooth  out  the  frowns,  or  bring 
The  sunshine  back  to  her  face  to  stay  ? 


87 

Ah !  thunder  will  come  to  the  clearest  sky, 
And  love  can't  escape  the  earthquake  day. 

Kisses  I'll  give  her — I  know  they  serve 

To  smooth  out  the  ruffles  in  roughest  lives; 

Kisses  will  cure  all  the  infant's  ills, 
And  kisses  the  little  griefs  of  wives. 

So  I  said :  "  Come,  love,  kiss  and  make  up !" 

She  stirred,  and  her  passion  I  thought  I'd  routed ; 

"  Kiss  me  !" — she  frowned  still — "  Kiss  me,  love  !" 
Ah  !  she  put  up  her  lips — but  only  pouted  ! 


TRUST. 

TV  /TY  love  is  little,  but  she's  very  wise, 

•*•   And  sometimes  she  my  little  patience  tries  : 
Whene'er  she  kisses  me,  she  shuts  her  eyes. 

When  first  I  noted  it,  I,  silent,  thought, 

"  Tis  a  new  trick  my  wizard  love  has  caught ; 

It  may  not  be  she  shuts  her  eyes  for  naught." 

And  then  I  said,  "  What  can  the  reason  be  ? 
My  love  is  mine,  and  few  can  love  as  we ; 
There's  naught  but  love  between  my  love  and  me." 

My  self-love  whispered,  "  Here  the  reason  find  : 
She'd  be  like  Cupid,  truest  Love  when  blind. 
As  she  is  wise,  my  winsome  love  is  kind." 


Still,  not  contented, — 'twere  a  pleasure  new 
If  that  my  love  herself  would  whisper  too, 
And  tell  my  sell-love  what  it  told  was  true. 

And  so  I  said,  "  My  love  must  make  me  wise, 
And  tell  me  this,  which  all  my  wit  defies : 
Why,  when  she  kisses  me,  she  shuts  her  eyes." 

"  You  must  not  ask  me."    "  Nay,  love,  but  I  must 
Love  is  not  love  without  supremest  trust. 
As  you  are  wise  and  kind,  you  will  be  just." 

So,  smiling:  "Then  'tis,  you've  so  plain  a  face, 
I  could  not,  darling,  kiss  you  else  with  grace ;" 
And  hid  herself,  nor  blushed  at  my  disgrace. 


3L  jf.  Bowman. 

THE    LAKE    OF   THE    LILIES. 


TT^WAS  October  —  bluer,  brighter 

^      Ne'er  was  sky  than  o'er  us  bent  ; 
Through  the  woods,  all  gold  and  crimson, 

Wound  the  path  by  which  we  went  ; 
Till  beside  the  sylvan  \vater 

Where  the  white  pond-lilies  float, 
Hid  by  flags  and  flaunting  rushes, 

We  espied  a  tiny  boat. 

In  we  stepped  :  with  slender  fingers 
Flushing  sweetly,  laughing  low  — 


Still  the  gentle  echo  lingers 
Of  that  laugh  of  long  ago— 

Echo  sad  that  haunts  my  slumbers, 
Falling  faint  on  brain  and  ear, 

While  I  listen,  wondering,  doubting 
If  I  only  dream  or  hear. 

With  those  slender  rose-tipped  fingers, 
Boasting  all  her  skill  the  while, 

She  adjusted  helm  and  tiller, 

Took  the  cords  with  archest  smile  ; 

Bade  me  ply  the  oar  with  vigor- 
She  the  shallop's  course  would  guide. 

From  the  sedge-lined  shore  we  parted — 
Floated  o'er  the  dimpling  tide. 

Bright  the  blue  sky  of  October 

Bent  above  us — gleamed  below- 
Mirrored  in  the  sylvan  water 


92 

Where  the  fragrant  lilies  grow. 
Lost  to  me  the  tranquil  beauty 

Of  smooth  lake  and  arching  skies ; 
I  beheld  a  brighter  heaven 

In  the  depths  of  azure  eyes. 

O'er  the  shallop's  side  I  bent  me, 

Plucked  the  lily  floating  there  ; 
Bade  her  note  its  star-like  fashion, 

Bade  her  taste  its  fragrance  rare. 
Beautiful  the  maiden  blushes, 

Which  with  smiles  she  strove  to  hide, 
When  I  said — "  These  Nature  fashions 

For  the  tresses  of  a  bride." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  for  raven  tresses 
Fairest  lilies — purest  pearls  !" 

Then  her  laughing  eyes  she  lifted — 
Shook  her  wealth  of  golden  curls, 


93 

And  a  glory  seemed  to  crown  her, 
Such  as  the  old  masters  paint, 

In  the  soft,  yet  dazzling  halo 

Round  the  brows  of  pictured  saint. 

Now  our  words  are  low  and  murmured, 

And  the  hours  unheeded  go, 
As  we  drift  among  the  shallows, 

Where  the  fairest  lilies  grow. 
Now  no  more  her  eyes  are  lifted, 

Paler  grows  her  flushing  cheek, 
And  the  tender,  pensive  silence 

Bids  me  win  her,  bids  me  speak. 

And  I  spoke — in  words  impassioned  - 
All  my  secret  soul  revealed, 

All  the  boundless  love  I  cherished, 
Cherished  long — so  long  concealed. 

Slowly  rose  those  silken  lashes, 
And  those  clear  and  candid  eyes 


94 

Looked  in  mine  serene  and  tender 
As  the  depths  of  April  skies. 

And  that  angel  head  declining 

For  an  instant  seemed  to  rest, 
A  beloved  and  lovely  burden, 

On  my  wildly  throbbing  breast. 
For  one  brief,  ecstatic  moment 

Half  she  sank  in  my  embrace, 
While  those  soft  and  waving  tresses 

Swept  my  bosom — touched  my  face. 

Floating  there  among  the  lilies, 

'Neath  October's  sapphire  sky, 
Freely,  fondly,  then  we  plighted 

Vows  of  love  that  ne'er  should  die. 
Ere  in  April's  sun  the  snow-wreaths 

Vanished  from  the  mountain's  side, 
I  beheld  her  at  the  altar 

Stand  a  victim — and  a  bride. 


95 

Long  in  stranger  lands  I've  wandered, 

And  no  more  my  feet  shall  roam 
Through  the  woods — beside  the  waters 

Of  my  far  New  England  home ; 
And  its  hills  and  pleasant  valleys 

Never  more  shall  glad  these  eyes, 
Dim  and  weary  grown  in  viewing 

Tropic  landscapes — tropic  skies. 

Long  has  ocean's  waste  of  waters 

Rolled  between  my  love  and  me, 
And  a  vaster  gulf  divides  us 

Than  the  darkest  depths  of  sea. 
But  in  visions  sad,  yet  welcome, 

Oft  that  autumn  landscape  gleams, 
Oft  that  gracious  presence  greets  me 

In  the  moonlight  realms  of  dreams. 


THE    WHOLE    STORK 

\\  7HEN  Jones  was  sixteen,  he  was  bent 
*  ^      On  one  day  being  President. 

At  twenty-five,  Jones  thought  that  he 
Content  as  District  Judge  would  be, 

At  thirty,  he  was  much  elated 

When  Mayor  of  Frogtown  nominated. 

But  bootless  all  the  nomination — 
His  rival  Tompkins  graced  the  station. 

At  forty-five,  his  dreams  had  fled ; 
Hope  and  Ambition,  both  were  dead. 


97 

When  from  his  toils  he  found  release, 
He  died — a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

O  youthful  heart,  so  high  and  bold, 
Thus  is  thy  brief,  sad  story  told ! 


WAITING. 

(AFTER    THE     GERMAN.) 

^  I^HE  full  moon  appeareth 

A      The  headland  above ; 
'Tis  the  hour  of  meeting — 
Where  lingers  my  love  ? 

The  summer  night  sheddeth 

Its  magical  spell 
O'er  forest  and  ocean, 

O'er  mountain  and  dell. 

The  summer  wind  sigheth 
In  voluptuous  strain; 

And  my  heart  is  dissolved 
In  sweet  longing  and  pain. 


99 

The  nightingales  murmur 
Their  loves  in  soft  trills, 

And  the  little  leaves  shiver 
With  passionate  thrills. 

In  earth,  air,  and  ocean, 

Around  and  above, 
Throb  the  pulses  of  passion, 

Breathes  the  music  of  love. 

But  hark  !  'tis  his  footstep  ; 

And  soon  in  his  eyes 
I  shall  read  the  sweet  lesson 

Of  the  earth  and  the  skies. 


.  C  B, 


r#£     OMEN. 

T3  ENEATH  the  mellowing  Autumn  sky 
*^*    We  walked  the  shore,  my  wife  and  I  : 
The  tints  October's  woods  that  dyed, 
The  sigh  of  the  retiring  tide, 
The  sun  just  sinking  in  the  west, 
Roused  the  old  longing  in  her  breast  — 
"  Which  first  shall  Death  to  glory  bear  *? 
Which,  lonely,  weep  and  wander  here  ?" 

Two  scallop  shells  arrest  my  eye  : 
"  With  these  will  I  the  omens  try  ; 


101 


Conjoined  they  grew  beneath  the  sea, 
Paired  and  complete  and  one  as  we ; 
That,  white  and  fair,  is  thine  alone ; 
This,  brown  and  rugged,  is  my  own ; 
I  launch  them  thus  upon  the  tide,— 
Which  first  shall  sink,  let  Fate  decide !" 

Thus,  half  in  terror,  half  in  mirth, 
I  launched  the  graceful  shallops  forth. 
The  wimpling  tide  retiring  bore 
Them  farther,  farther  from  the  shore- 
While  she  pressed  closer  to  my  arm, 
Hushed  breath  and  heart  in  sweet  alarm ; 
And  cried,  as  either  disappeared, 
"  Ah,  thine  is  gone  :  'twas  that  I  feared !" 

But  still,  along  the  dimpled  sea, 
Tilted  our  life-boats  buoyantly, 
Till,  side  by  side,  beyond  our  sight, 


102 


They  floated  forth  into  the  night. 
Then,  baffled,  awed,  rebuked,  and  still 
We  stood ;  and  my  rebellious  will 
Felt,  mid  the  hush  on  sea  and  shore, 
A  Presence  all  unfelt  before. 

"  Forgive,  O  God !   Forgive  !"  I  cried, 
"  That  we  have  sought  what  thou  dost  hide 
Thy  secret  purpose  we  would  scan, 
Distrustful  of  thy  love  to  man. 
Led  by  thy  love  our  life  hath  been 
By  waters  still,  through  pastures  green  : 
Led  by  thy  love  our  life  shall  be  ; 
We  trust,  O  God,  that  life  to  Thee  !" 


(ftcirric  Ccirlton. 


THANK    GOD    FOR    RAIN. 


God  for  rain  !     The  parched  and  thirsty 
earth 

Lay  panting  'neath  the  glare  of  cloudless  skies: 
The  sultry  air  seemed  almost  luminous  with  flame, 

Save  when  anon  fresh  ocean-breezes  rise. 
Fair  Plenty's  ruddy  form  grew  strangely  thin  ; 

All  pinched  and  shrunken  seemed  her  kindly  face, 
Till,  when  men  viewed  her,  with  blanched  lips  they 

cried  :  — 
"Gaunt  Famine  stalketh  through  our  market-place  !" 

The  streams  and  rivulets  had  long  since  died, 
Their  life  too  feeble  for  the  sun's  fierce  ray  ; 


104 

The  beasts,  and  kine,  and  faithful  steed  as  well, 
Sought  vainly  for  some  stream  their  thirst  to  stay ; 

Sweet  verdure,  that  had  just  sprung  into  life, 
Grew  faint  for  lack  of  nourishment,  and  died. 

The  young  grain,  conscious  of  its  own  great  work, 
Clung  feebly  to  its  life,  but  drooped  and  sighed. 

All  men  looked  vainly  for  the  coming  cloud — 

The  poor,  with  what  deep  prayer  God  only  heard ; 
But  in  His  ear  were  poured  ten  thousand  prayers, 

From  hearts  that  never  breathed  the  fearful  word — 
Famine.    "  O  God,  in  mercy  save  ! 

Must  we  thus  perish  of  this  awful  death  *? 
In  pity  send  the  rain — the  blessed  rain — 

Or  smite  us  with  thy  lightning  from  the  earth." 

Relenting  Heaven  smiled  on  the  kneeling  earth — 
The  scattered  clouds  in  one  dark  mountain  blend — 

The  cooling  winds  blow  fresh  from  off  the  sea, 
And,  God  be  praised !  the  gentle  rains  descend. 


"Thank  God  for  rain!"  the  field  and  herbage  sing: 
'*  Thank  God  for  rain !"  ten  thousand  souls  reply. 

O'er  all  this  land  rings  out  a  song  of  praise, 
That  to  its  center  shakes  the  blue-arched  sky. 


ITIXG    FOR     THE    R  J  I  X. 

H  !  the  Earth  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  rain  — 
Waiting  for  the  fresh'ning  showers, 
Wakening  all  her  slumb'ring  powers, 
With  their  dewy  moisture  sating 

Thirst}*  hill  and  plain. 
Oh  !  the  Earth  is  weary  waiting, 

Waitin    for  the  rain. 


Oh  !  the  Earth  is  weary  longing, 
Longing  for  the  rain  — 


io7 

I/jnging  for  the  cloud-wrapt  mountains. 

Longing  for  the  leaping  fountains, 

With  their  clamorous  murmurs  thronging 

To  the  silent  plain. 
Oh !  the  Earth  is  wean*  longing, 

Longing  tor  the  rain. 

Oh  !  the  Earth  is  pained  with  throbbing. 

Throbbing  for  the  rain- 
Pained  to  see  the  valley  lading— 
Pained  to  see  the  frost's  red  braiding 
And  the  with'ring  north  winds  sobbing 

O'er  her  fields  of  grain. 
Oh !  the  Earth  is  pained  with  throbbing. 

Throbbing  lor  the  rain. 

Oh !  the  Earth  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  rain- 
Sighing  for  the  green  grass  springing, 


io8 

And  the  fragrant  wild  flowers  bringing 
Beauty — ere  the  clover  dying 

Sear  the  waiting  plain. 
Oh !  the  Earth  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  rain. 

Sore  with  restlessness  and  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  rain — 
While  along  the  upturned  furrow 
Busy  rooks  and  blackbirds  burrow, 
From  her  wide-spread  gardens  robbing 

Wealth  of  scattered  grain. 
Oh !  the  Earth  is  very  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  rain. 

Waiting  restlessly  yet  weary — 

Waiting  for  the  rain, 
For  the  crystal  tear-drops  clinging 
To  the  wild  oats,  fresh  upspringing, 


log 

And  the  voices  blending  cheery 
With  the  wild-bird's  strain. 

Oh !  the  Earth  is  sad  and  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  rain. 

And  our  human  hearts  grow  weary, 

Throbbing  day  by  day- 
Thirsting  for  the  fresh'ning  showers 
O'er  the  dreams  of  future  hours, 
While  the  present,  never  sating, 

Glides  unfelt  away. 
Oh !  the  heart  is  weary,  weary, 
Through  its  life-long  day. 


ALONE    IN   THE    WOODS. 


from  the  busy  world  rejoiced  I  come 
To  court  your  influence,  ye  verdant  woods, 
Whose  templed  shades  have  never  caught  the  hum 

Of  odious  traffic,  nor  your  solitudes 

Been  saddened  by  the  suffering  that  broods 
Like  some  dark  spirit  o'er  the  haunts  of  men. 

Here,  on  some  hill-top,  gazing  at  the  sky, 
Or  slowly  idling  through  each  flowery  glen, 

Cooled  by  the  singing  brook  that  ripples  by  — 
My  soul  can  meditate  in  peace,  or  smile,  or  sigh. 


Ill 

Here,  while  I  roam,  a  thousand  centuries  seem 
To  look  on  me — poor  mortal  of  an  hour  ! 

Yon  bounding  river,  sparkling  with  a  gleam 

Of  mid-day  light ;  the  granite  mounts  that  tower 
So  far  above  me ;  and  the  cliffs  that  lower 

Forever  o'er  the  depths  of  cailons  wild, 
Where  savage  beings  dwell  in  loneliness, 

And  mossy  bowlders  high  towards  heaven  are  piled  ;— 
All  these  betray  a  secret  mightiness 

That  makes  all  human  greatness  seem  but  nothing 
ness. 

Here,  while  I  catch  the  spirit  of  the  scene, 
Rise  in  my  soul  traditions  of  past  ages, 

Great  as  the  present — but  forgot,  I  ween, 
Save  for  the  art  of  old  historic  sages 
Or  time-enduring  verse  of  poets'  pages ; 

Majestic  empires  crumbled  to  the  earth, 
A  city's  ruins  buried  'neath  the-  sea, 


112 

With  only  speculation  for  their  birth ; 

Their  rise  and  failure  wrapt  in  mystery 
Fathomless  as  the  depths  of  vast  eternity. 

Now,  like  a  requiem  for  grandeur  past, 

Floats  through  my  soul  some  fragment  of  a  song, 

Plaintive  and  low  as  sounds  the  piny  blast 
When  zephyr  gently  sighs  the  trees  among 
And  groweth  sadder  as  he  moves  along. 

Thus  Nature  wakes  to  melody  the  soul 
That  woos  her  charms  in  solitude  retired ; 

Thus  brings  the  spirit  under  the  control 

Of  noble  thoughts  and  yearnings,  till  'tis  fired 

With  poesy,  and  breaks  forth  in  a  song  inspired. 

Thickly  around  me,  piercing  to  the  blue, 
The  living  columns  of  the  forest  stand. 

Glimpses  of  heaven  seldom  tremble  through 
Their  verdant  capitals,  by  breezes  fanned 


"3 

And  breathing  melody,  supernal,  grand. 
No  trifling  thoughts  can  start  to  being  here. 

My  breath  is  hushed  beneath  a  solemn  spell, 
As  though  I  trod  in  some  unearthly  sphere : 

My  quick  heart  beats  each  passing  second's  knell, 
Save  when,  oppressed,  the  long-drawn  sigh  doth  from 
it  swell. 

In  scenes  like  this  blind  Ossian  raised  the  note 

Of  old,  heroic,  plaintive  northern  song, 
Whose  moving  strains  to  latest  times  shall  float, 

In  rich,  immortal  numbers,  wild  and  strong. 

In  scenes  like  this  the  spirit  goes  along 
A  dim  perspective,  backward,  to  the  time 

When  giant  warriors  through  the  forest  trod, 
Intent  on  deeds  that  seemed  to  them  sublime; 

When  every  grove  contained  a  heathen  god, 
And   mounds  o'er  slaughtered  heroes  swelled  above 
the  sod. 


114 

Lo !  here  about  me,  like  those  mounds  of  old, 
Are  swelling  hills — no,  billows  of  the  main, 

Against  the  rugged  mountains  softly  rolled, 

But  turned  to  land,  and  clad  with  ripening  grain, 
Or  clover  beds,  and  fragrant  blooms  whose  stain 

Was  from  the  rainbow  caught,  or  from  the  soil 
That  hides  in  stony  strata,  fathoms  deep, 

The  yellow  seeds  of  wealth  :  these  brawny  toil 
Hath  come  afar  to  seek,  and  now  each  steep 

Or  gentle  hill  its  beauty  can  no  longer  keep. 


Thou  God  of  Nature  !     Hadst  thou  but  imbued 

My  yearning  spirit  with  the  noble  gift, 
Enjoyed  by  some,  of  turning  every  mood 

The  being  feels  to  poetry,  I'd  lift 

The  thoughts  of  men  above  mere  sordid  thrift ; 
For  ah !  too  much  by  that  mankind  are  bound, 

Too  much  of  earthiness  their  course  reveals ; 


Their  plodding  souls  rise  seldom  from  the  ground ; 
Too  seldom  tread  they  o'er  the  blooming  fields, 
Courting  the  purity  their  beauty  freely  yields. 

But  me — a  barren  shrub  fixed  in  the  earth— 
Thou'st  blest  not  with  ability  to  bloom. 

Cursed  in  my  later  growth  as  in  my  birth, 
Unfruitfulness  my  melancholy  doom, 
I  pine  in  solitude  and  rayless  gloom. 

Like  one  in  deathly  trance,  speechless  I  lie, 
All  things  perceiving,  but  expressing  naught ; 

Creation's  loveliness  enrapt  espy, 

My  swelling  soul  with  great  emotions  fraught, 

While  chill  incompetency  freezes  every  thought. 

Yet  am  I  thankful  thought  is  not  denied, 
As  'tis  to  some,  unfortunates,  who  spend 

The  precious  coin  of  life  on  joys  allied 
To  low  bestiality ;  who  never  wend 


With  glad  yet  reverent  feet  to  where  ascend 
The  fanes  of  Nature  in  the  shady  grove. 

Yet  am  I  thankful  for  the  melody 
Of  morning  birds,  who,  fluttering,  sing  of  love ; 

Thankful  my  heart  can  throb  with  sympathy, 
And  sip  from  every  blossom  treasures,  like  a  bee. 


THE     L  ONE    PINE. 

SWAY  thy  top,  thou  ancient  pine- 
Warrior  of  the  storm  commanding ! 
Lone  upon  the  mountain  standing, 
Whom  no  ivy's  arms  entwine. 
Melancholy  souls  like  mine, 

'Neath  thy  shadow  passing  slow, 
Love  to  hear  thy  plaintive  moan; 

Tis  an  echo  of  the  woe 
Found  in  human  breasts  alone. 

Mournfully  amid  the  ruins 

Of  thy  fellows  standest  thou, 
Like  a  column  of  some  temple 


Living  but  in  story  now ; 
All  around  it,  wildly  scattered, 
Fallen  walls  and  pillars  shattered. 
Softly  sighing  through  thy  branches 

Sounds  the  wind,  with  fall  and  swell; 
Now  retreats,  and  now  advances, 

Rousing  fancy  with  its  spell, 
Like  the  melody  that  chances 

On  the  ear  from  distant  bell, 
Or  the  murmur  that  entrances 

Of  the  tinted  sea-side  shell. 
Lo  !  musing  on  thy  loneliness, 

Thy  brethren  seem  again  to  rise : 
On  every  hand  a  wilderness 

Shuts  out  the  prospect  of  the  skies. 

'Tis  verdure  all,  and  deepest  shade.     No  sound 

Disturbs  the  thoughtful  silence,  save 

A  murmur  such  as  rolls  through  ocean  cave, 


And  rustling  of  dry  leaves  upon  the  ground. 

But  while  I  listen  with  an  awe  profound, 

A  glance  dispels  the  visionary  wood — 

A  single  tree  remains  where  late  ten  thousand  stood. 


rOJ/      DARLING. 

'T^OM  Darling  was  a  darling  Tom 

(Excuse  all  vulgar  puns)  ; 
A  type  of  California's  bright 
Rising  and  setting  sons. 

His  father  was  an  austere  man — 

An  oyster-man  was  he, 
Who  opened  life  by  opening 

The  shell-fish  of  the  sea; 


121 

But  hearing  of  a  richer  clime, 

He  took  his  only  son, 
And  came  where  golden  minds  are  lost. 

While  golden  mines  are  won. 

» 

They  hoped  to  fill  their  pockets  from 

Rich  pockets  in  the  ground : 
And  midst  the  bowlders  of  the  hills 

None  bolder  could  be  found. 

For  though  a  mining  minor,  Tom 

Was  never  known  to  shirk ; 
And  while  with  zeal  he  worked  his  claim. 

His  father  claimed  his  work. 

Time's  record  on  his  brow  now  showed 

A  fair  and  spotless  page : 
And,  as  his  age  became  him  well, 

He  soon  became  of  age. 
9 


122 

Thinking  that  he  was  up  to  all 

The  California  tricks, 
He  now  resolved  to  pick  his  way 

Without  the  aid  of  picks. 

In  less  than  eighteen  circling  moons 

Two  fortunes  he  had  made  ; 
One  by  good  luck  at  trade  in  stock, 

And  one  by  stock  in  trade. 

With  health  and  wealth  he  now  could  live 

Upon  the  easy  plan ; 
While  everybody  said,  of  course, 

He  was  a  fine  young  man. 

But  Thomas  fell,  and  sadly  too — 

Who  of  his  friends  would  'thought  it  ? 

He  ran  for  office,  and,  alas 

For  him  and  his ! — he  caught  it. 


123 

Mixing  no  more  with  sober  men, 
He  found  his  morals  fleeing ; 

And  being  of  a  jovial  turn, 
He  turned  a  jovial  being. 

With  Governor  and  Constable 
His  cash  he  freely  spends; 

From  Constable  to  Governor 
He  had  a  host  of  friends. 

But  soon  he  found  he  could  not  take, 

As  his  old  father  would, 
A  little  spirits,  just  enough 

To  do  his  spirits  good. 

In  councils  with  the  patriots 

Upon  affairs  of  State, 
Setting  no  bars  to  drinking,  he 

Soon  lost  his  upright  gait. 


124 

His  brandy  straightway  made  him  walk 

In  very  crooked  ways ; 
While  lager-beer  brought  to  his  view 

A  bier  and  span  of  grays. 

The  nips  kept  nipping  at  his  purse— 
(Two  bits  for  every  dram) — 

While  clear  champagne  produced  in  him 
A  pain  that  was  no  sham. 

His  cups  of  wine  were  followed  by 

The  doctor's  painful  cup ; 
Each  morning  found  him  getting  low 

As  he  was  getting  up. 

Thus  uselessly  and  feebly  did 

His  short  existence  flit, 
Till  in  a  drunken  fight  he  fell 

Into  a  drunken  fit. 


The  doctors  came,  but  here  their  skill 

They  found  of  no  avail ; 
They  all  agreed,  what  ailed  poor  Tom 

Was  politics — and  ale. 


MART  BROWN. 

HE  dwelt  where  long  the  wintry  showers 

Hold  undisputed  sway, 
Where  frowning  April  drives  the  flowers 

Far  down  the  lane  of  May. 
A  simple,  rustic  child  of  song, 

Reared  in  a  chilling  zone, 
The  idol  of  a  household  throng — 

The  cherished  one  of  homer 
None  sang  her  praise,  or  heard  her  fame 

Beyond  her  native  town ; 
She  bore  no  fancy-woven  name, 

'Twas  simply  Mary  Brown. 


127 

Her  eyes  were  not  a  shining  black, 

Nor  yet  a  heavenly  blue, 
They  might  be  hazel,  or,  alack ! 

Some  less  poetic  hue ; 
Indeed,  I  mind  me,  long  ago, 

One  pleasant  summer  day, 
A  passing  stranger  caught  their  glow, 

I  think  he  called  them  gray. 
Yet  when  with  earnestness  they  burned 

Till  other  eyes  grew  dim, 
Their  outward  tint  was  ne'er  discerned— 

The  spell  was  from  within. 

A  novelist,  with  Fancy's  pen, 
Would  scarcely  strive  to  trace 

From  her  a  fairy  heroine 

Of  matchless  mien  and  grace— 

A  model  for  the  painter's  skill, 
Or  for  the  sculptor's  art, 


128 

Her  form  might  not  be  called;  yet  still 

It  bore  a  gentle  heart ; 
The  while  it  fondly  treasured  long 

Love's  lightest  whispered  tone, 
In  other  hearts  she  sought  no  wrong — 

She  knew  none  in  her  own. 

Though  never  skilled  in  Fashion's  school, 

To  sweep  the  trembling  keys, 
Or  strike  the  harp  by  studied  rule, 

A  listening  throng  to  please : 
Yet  still,  when  anguish  rent  the  soul, 

And  fever  racked  the  brain, 
Her  fingers  knew  that  skillful  touch 

Which  soothed  the  brow  of  pain— 
And  widow  thanks,  and  orphan  tears 

Had  owned  her  tender  care, 
While  little  children  gathered  near, 

Her  earnest  love  to  share. 


129 

I  might  forget  the  queenly  dame 

Of  high  and  courtly  birth. 
Descending  from  an  ancient  name 

Among  the  sons  of  earth ; 
I  scarce  recall  the  dazzling  eyes 

Of  her,  the  village  belle. 
Who  caused  so  many  rural  sighs 

From  rustic  hearts  to  swell ; 
Yet  never  can  I  cease  to  own, 

While  future  years  shall  roll. 
Thy  passing  beauty.  Man"  Brown- 

The  beauty  of  the  soul. 


JHr0.  X  JHL  Sljult?. 

THE    SONG    OF    THE    FLUME. 

\  WAKE,  awake  !  for  the  flaming  east 

Is  red  with  the  coming  day ; 
My  struggling  breast  disdains  its  rest, 

And  I  haste  o'er  the  hills  away. 
Up  from  the  valley !— up  from  the  plain ! 

Up  from  the  river's  side ! 
For  I  come  with  a  gush,  and  a  torrent's  rush, 

And  there's  wealth  in  my  swelling  tide. 

I  am  fed  by  the  melting  rills  that  start 
Where  the  sparkling  snow-peaks  gleam ; 


My  course  is  free,  and  with  greatest  glee 

I  leap  in  the  sun's  broad  beam. 
Though  torn  from  the  channels  deep  and  old 

I  have  worn  through  the  craggy  hill, 
Yet  I  flow  in  pride  as  my  waters  glide, 

And  there's  mirth  in  my  music  still. 

I  sought  the  shore  of  the  sounding  sea 

From  the  far  Sierra's  hight, 
With  a  starry  breast  and  a  snow-capped  crest, 

I  foamed  in  a  path  of  light; 
But  they  bore  me  thence  in  a  winding  way— 

They  fettered  me  like  a  slave, 
And  as  serfs  of  old  were  sold  for  gold, 

So  they  bartered  my  soil-stained  wave. 

Through  the  dim  tunnel,  down  the  dark  shaft, 

Search  for  the  shining  ore ; 
Hoist  it  away  to  the  light  of  day 


132 

Which  it  never  has  seen  before ! 
Spade  and  shovel,  mattcck  and  pick — 

Ply  them  with  eager  haste ; 
For  my  golden  shower  is  sold  by  the  hour, 

And  the  drops  are  too  dear  to  waste. 

Lift  me  aloft  to  the  mountain  brow ! 

Fathom  the  deep  blue  vein ! 
And  I'll  sift  the  soil  for  the  shining  spoil, 

As  I  sink  to  the  valley  again ; 
The  swell  of  my  swarthy  breast  shall  bear 

Pebble  and  rock  away, 

Though  they  brave  my  strength,  they  shall  yield 
at  length, 

But  the  glittering  gold  shall  stay. 

Mine  is  no  stern  and  warrior  march, 

Nor  stormy  trump  and  drum ; 
No  banners  gleam  in  my  darkened  stream, 


133 

As  with  conquering  step  I  come ; 
But  I  touch  the  tributary  earth 

Till  it  owns  a  monarch's  sway, 
And  with  eager  hand,  from  a  conquered  land, 

I  bear  its  wealth  away. 

Awake  !  awake  ! — there  are  loving  hearts 

In  the  land  you  left  afar ; 
There  are  tearful  eyes  in  the  homes  you  prize, 

As  they  gaze  on  the  western  star. 
Then  up  from  the  valley! — up  from  the  hill  !— 

Up  from  the  river's  side ! 
For  I  come  with  a  gush  and  a  torrent's  rush, 

And  there's  wealth  in  my  swelling  tide ! 


3.  ft.  ftt&ge. 

ERINNJ* 

TMAGINATION!  rouse  thee  from  repose, 

And  to  our  eyes  Erinna  lost  disclose ; 
Since,  from  the  living  voice  of  time  is  gone 
Her  genius-gifted  and  melodious  tone, 
And  from  his  star-lit  page  the  words  are  fled 
She  from  her  early  lyre  in  wonder  shed ! 
Arouse  thee  !  fling  around  her  fancied  form 
A  glorious  hue — a  beauty  rich  and  warm. 


1  Erinna,  a  native  of  Lesbos,  and  friend  of  Sappho,  died  at  the  early  age 
of  nineteen.  She  is  described  as  a  girl  of  extraordinary  beauty  and  genius ; 
but  her  works,  all  except  two  or  three  epigrams,  have  unfortunately  perished. 
—Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  Ancients,  by  WILLIAM  PETER,  A.  M. 


135 

Tis  done :  alone,  by  Lesbos'  wave-washed  strand, 

I  see  her  in  the  pride  of  beauty  stand, 

Far  gazing  where  the  ^Egean  waters  smile 

Around  her  native  home  and  classic  isle. 

Soft  blow  the  breezes  on  her  snowy  brow, 

And  stir  the  folds  around  her  limbs  that  flow ; 

Her  golden  hair's  luxuriance  on  her  neck 

Falls  unregarded  down ;  it  needs  no  check— 

For  who  would  comb  the  plumage  of  the  bird, 

Or  smooth  the  dimpling  waves  by  Zephyr  stirred  ? 

Her  small  white  hands  are  linked  beneath  her  zone, 

And  'tween  her  sweetly  rounded  arms  are  shown 

Twin  spheres  of  Love,  and  Pleasure's  burning  throne  ! 

A  glow  is  on  her  cheeks,  and  fresh  her  lips 

As  evening  cloud  the  Sun's  vermilion  tips ; 

Her  clear  bright  eye  wild  wanders  o'er  the  main, 

That,  rolling  its  blue  waves  along,  a  strain 

Eternal  utters,  and  sublime,  to  charm 

The  fair  green  isles  that  o'er  its  bosom  swarm. 


136 

Ah  !  beautiful  indeed !     What  magic  gives 
The  grace  that  in  her  every  movement  lives  ? 
What  power,  unseen,  is  breathing  o'er  her  face, 
Where  every  lineament  divine  we  trace  ? 
It  is  the  magic  Sorcerer,  never  stole 
From  Science  dread — the  magic  of  the  Soul ! 
It  is  the  power  of  genius  Heaven-conferred, 
Which,  voiceless  though  it  be,  and  aye  unheard, 
Imparts  its  own  true  beauty  to  the  face, 
And  lends  unto  the  form  its  bloom  and  grace. 

Erinna !  mid  the  objects  Time  has  cast 

His  hand  upon,  thou  stand'st  within  the  past 

In  lonely  and  peculiar  loveliness ! 

The  child  of  song,  with  Nature's  own  impress 

Upon  thee — yet  thy  harp  is  hushed,  and  no 

Sweet  strains  of  thine  through  distant  times  shall  flow 

Thy  voice  has  perished,  sweetly  though  it  sung, 

And  perished  those  who  on  its  accents  hung ; 


137 

Thou  wert  a  bird,  that  breathed  its  soul  away 

In  song,  and  died — but  Echo  lost  the  lay; 

Thou  wert  a  star,  which  shone  a  single  night, 

And  set,  to  bring  no  more  its  worshipped  light. 

Thou  t//7  a  glorious  image  of  the  mind, 

Seen  through  the  depths  of  ages,  far  behind, 

Round  which  our  fancy  flings  her  brightest  beams. 

While  ancient  story  faintly  aids  her  dreams. 

The  friend  of  Sappho — linked  together  be 

Those  names,  and  never  wrecked  on  Time's  wide  sea 

And  when  we  read  the  passion-wildering  strain. 

Ot  Sappho's  muse,  that  charms  the  listening  brain. 

We'll  feel  Erinna's  voice  our  hearts  inspire, 

And  dream  her  lovely  hand  is  on  the  lyre. 


10 


H.  £.  Duncan. 

» • 

THE       I  X  r  A  G  L   I  O. 

LINL5    ON    A    BEAUTIFUL    ANTIQUE. 

ON  the  temple-crowned  summit, 
O'er  the  waters  of  the  bay, 
Lingered  yet  the  rosy  sunlight, 
Lingered  yet  the  dying  day ! 

O'er  the  Pantheon's  sculptured  beauties 
Light  and  shade  were  playing  still, 

Matchless  statues,  life-like  tinted. 
Stood  upon  Minerva's  hill. 

Gazing  on  his  work  completed, 
Carved  upon  a  sparkling  stone, 


139 

Sat  an  artist  in  the  twilight, 
Like  a  monarch  on  his  throne ! 

And  his  subjects  were  around  him, 

Called  forth  by  a  master's  power- 
Genius,  with  its  bright  creations, 
Peopled  there  the  passing  hour. 

But  a  face  of  rarer  beauty 

On  his  dreams  had  never  shone. 

Than  the  one  his  hand  had  graven 
Deep  within  the  gem-lit  stone. 

From  the  Past  that  face  was  chosen ! 

There  its  gaze  still  seemed  to  be- 
Flashing  by  the  dying  sunlight 

Shone  the  word  MNEMOSYNE  ! 


Full  two  thousand  years  their  changes 
Mark  upon  the  sculptured  wall ; 


140 

Ruins,  mighty  in  their  ruin, 

Spread  o'er  Greece  a  nation's  pall ! 

Full  two  thousand  years  are  numbered 
Since  that  artist's  task  was  done — 

Since  in  glory  Athens  sparkled, 
Lit  up  by  that  setting  sun. 

Yet  the  carved  gem  remaining 
Tells  us  of  that  golden  age, 

And  bids  Memory's  face  restore  us 
Light  to  read  her  brightest  page. 

#  -:?  #  «  i 

On  the  temple-crowned  summit 
Breaks  again  the  rising  day, 

Streaming  with  its  dawning  brightness 
Down  the  waters  of  the  bay  ! 

See,  the  centuried  mist  is  breaking ! 
Lo,  the  free  Hellenic  shore ! 


Marathon — Plarsea  tell  us 

Greece  \s  living  Greece  once  more. 

O'er  the  island-gemmed  yEgean, 
By  the  zephyr  borne  along, 

List  the  muse  of  plaintive  Sappho- 
Hear  Anacreon's  wine-pressed  song. 

Stately  temples  stand  before  us, 

Where  the  wisest  masters  taught — 

Fairest  in  their  fair  proportions, 

Columned  halls  where  Phidias  wrought. 

Hark !  a  voice  from  the  Agora 

Bids  a  thousand  voices  cease- 
Pericles,  the  lord  of  language, 
Stirs  to  war,  or  soothes  to  peace ! 

Painting,  by  her  rival  sisters, 
Stands  in  her  meridian  day; 


Rivaling  Nature  by  her  semblance, 
Bidding  Nature  homage  pay!1 

See  those  gilded  letters  glowing — 
Mark  that  laurel  wreath  of  fame — 

.Eschylus,  they  give  &\  verses ; 
Sophocles,  they  wreathe  tkr  name ! 

*  *  *  * 

Lo,  the  mist  again  is  closing 
O'er  the  waters  of  the  bay — 

Night,  her  mantle  now  enfolds  it; 
When  will  come  again  the  day? 

Full  two  thousand  years  are  numbered 
Since  that  artist's  task  was  done — 

Since  in  gkxy  Athens  faded, 
Lit  up  by  that  setting  son! 


3amcs  Ciucn. 

/   FEEL    PM   GROWING  AULD. 

T  FEEL  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife, 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
My  steps  are  frail,  my  een  are  bleared, 

My  pow  is  unco  bauld. 
I've  seen  the  snaws  o'  fourscore  years 

O'er  hill  and  meadow  fa', 
And,  hinnie !  were  it  no  for  you, 

I'd  gladly  slip  awa'. 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife, 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
Frae  youth  to  age  I've  keepit  warm 

The  love  that  ne'er  turned  cauld. 


144 

I  canna  bear  the  dreary  thocht 

That  we  maun  sindered  be ; 
There's  naething  binds  my  poor  auld  heart 

To  earth,  gude-wife,  but  thee. 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld,  gude-wife, 

I  feel  I'm  growing  auld ; 
Life  seems  to  me  a  wintry  waste — 

The  very  sun  feels  cauld. 
For  lang,  lang  years  ye've  been  to  me 

O'  warldly  friens  the  best ; 
Now,  I'll  lay  down  my  weary  head, 

Gude-wife,  and  be  at  rest. 


14  DAY  USE 

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LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


f  to  recall  after 


LD21-35m-8,'72 
(Q4189S10)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


